Two Kinds of Color

By Deborah Kennedy

Two Kinds of Color is story of a mother’s love and sacrifice for her four racially divided children. Two of them are black, two are white. Their mother, Freddie Walker, has not only movie star beauty, sensuality, and sexuality, she has the kind of intelligence which white-collar Wall Street can only dream of. Sidetracked from realizing her dream of gaining a fortune playing with stocks and bonds, she moves to the notorious South Side of Chicago, where she and her children are raised and abused by a brutal and vain gambler, pimp, Jimmy Tate. When the unthinkable happens the only one she can turn to is her best friend, a black woman, Ruby Johnson. Will her children, turned adults, hate their mother and Ruby, or realize there is no greater love than that of two mothers?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9781649798817

Book preview

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my mother, a real thing of beauty.

I love you Mama.

Copyright Information ©

Deborah Kennedy 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Kennedy, Deborah

Two Kinds of Color

ISBN 9781649798800 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781649798817 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023910886

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Acknowledgment

I would like to thank the team at Austin Macauley for believing in Two Kinds of Color.

License Notes

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter One

June 23, 1970

Jimmy Tate stood at the bar. If one wanted to figure him out his clothes did the talking. To step back and take a good look at him, he may have been fifty-five or fifty-six. He lied about his age so much he forgot the truth of it. No one knew his real age. To put forth his picture of vanity, his race to wipe out time while warding off creases and wrinkles, he used Noxzema Medicated Skin Cream and avoided smiling too broadly. A red cosmetic sponge was always handy in his breast pocket. He used it to mop the shine off his face, decreasing the glare of moisture that bathed his dark skin. To maintain his weight of one-hundred and fifty-nine pounds, he took two laxatives twice a day and ate more vegetables than meat. Where style of dress was of great importance, he ignored current fashions. He dressed according to the look of black hustlers in their prime during the late 1950s.

Where call of crime demanded center stage, the color of skin being of great importance, Jimmy had no women who were darker than himself. To sum up the rest of Jimmy Tate besides his ownership of illegal gaming and whore houses in Chicago, Terra Haute, and Gary Indiana, and the extortion of a few black-owned businesses, he made most of his money off the backs of women. He was known as a malicious, vain, and nefarious bastard that lived by the mirror.

Jimmy drank his third whiskey. On this night his suit, chosen over many of his expensive styles and textures for the summer season, was light brown silk. It was a perfect match to the light brown silk tie and white silk shirt. His hat was perfectly boxed and cocked to tilt down low on the right side of his head. He took off his hat and sat it on the bar next to his drink. In a poorly lit bar, like 229 he appeared a wealthy businessman out for an evening of fun.

He swayed to the rhythm of the jazz music that came from the jukebox. He gave Reggie the two-finger signal to move his ass and pour him another whiskey.

Reggie, a black man in his early sixties, owner of 229, took his time going to Jimmy. The bar was packed with a new model of noisy hustler shimmering in gold, demanding his attention. I ain’t pourin’ you more whiskey, Reggie told Jimmy. When did you start drinkin’ anyhow?

Jimmy was not a drinker. He indulged when his mind was weighted with the type of trouble threatening his money. Don’t you have a fuckin’ business establishment to run? said Jimmy. Why don’t you mind it for a nice fuckin’ change?

Reggie blew off the comment and poured Jimmy another whiskey. You knew you would never keep a woman like that. You dumb son-of-a bitch puttin’ all your money on one goddamn horse runnin’ faster than all the rest. Freddie was too young when you caught her. She’ll be young when you’re old and dead.

Women like her need a winner like me, old man.

Not on the fuckin’ day they decide to keep runnin’ away from home.

She’s mine until I say she ain’t. It ain’t her decision.

The word around here is you gave her permission to leave you.

Jimmy sipped his whiskey. Yeah, well, I changed my mind.

Nobody expected you to keep it.

Somethin’ ain’t right. His voice took on a serious tone. The way the motherfuckin’ police is shuttin’ me down. They’re shuttin’ me down, man. They won’t take my money. I know who’s behind the shit.

You two-bit track-dirty pimps are alike. When it all falls down, you go lookin’ to put the blame on somebody else. When the goddamn police don’t take your money, they’re tellin’ you somethin’. They’re sendin’ you a good clean signal. It’s over.

Go on, said Jimmy, smiling over the truth of the conversation. Let me hear what you gotta say. I feel hot enough to listen to your shit. Come on with it.

Yeah. You gettin’ exactly what you deserve, said Reggie, wiping the bar around Jimmy, emptying ashtrays and putting them back on top of the bar. You bastards make all the money in the world. When the well dries up you wanna kill some whore, because you ain’t got shit to show for all the money you made off their efforts. If Freddie is smart like everybody say, she probably got more money than you ever had in your fucked-up life.

So, I heard. He drank the shot of whiskey.

She and Ruby own that house, don’t they? I heard it was paid for. Is your name on it, Negro?

Tilt the bottle motherfucker.

I feel like a blessed king when you sweet daddy bastards get down to sellin’ all your fancy shit. I know when you’re ready to get a job sweepin’ floors. Just don’t come here lookin’ for work. I ain’t hirin’ your black ass. Go on. Get the fuck out of my business establishment. You drank your courage.

Jimmy tossed down the rest of his whiskey. It’s time to go anyway. He put on his hat and cocked it to the famous tilt. He reached inside his pocket and removed a hundred dollars from a gold money clip. He threw the money on the bar at Reggie. I’ll talk to you later, old man. Take it easy.

You do the same.

A lot had been said between the lines. Reggie hoped he heard him and didn’t take the conversation as just another pissing contest.

Jimmy exited 229 and stepped onto 55th Street’s main drag on the South Side of Chicago. He had given Reggie part of the last eight-hundred dollars in his pocket. He thought Reggie was right. His time was over. His desperation of what to do with a life on the verge of losing everything colored him completely.

Spits & Angela

Across an alley adjacent to the Walker house was a garage apartment that came with the property. It was a greasy and musty one-room hole. Spits, Jimmy’s sidekick of support and flunkeyism lived there. He was a tall black man in his early thirties. He was too thin for his height and had a crooked lean to an unsteady gait. The most noticeable and sustaining impression about his character was his intense call for life to recognize him as a man.

To step back and take a look inside the room, where Spits lived, the alley grime that came from shoes gave the once shaggy-red carpet the color of charcoal burgundy. There was an overused and ragged sofa that opened out into a full-sized bed. Most of the time it stayed in an upright position. Spits slept on it that way.

A handyman’s make-shift table sat next to the sofa. A radio with broken and chipped edges sat on the table. A black telephone with no dial sat next to it. He could only receive calls from Jimmy telling him what to do.

Spits was a loyal-clean man who had to live clean in a dirty place. He was not a complainer. He grew up in Alabama. Living in poorer than poor conditions was life.

On this same night, Jimmy instructed Spits to go to the Walker house and pick up his eight-year-old daughter, Angela Walker. She sat on the far end of the sofa and Spits sat at the other. A sledgehammer divided the space between them. Its iron head sat on the floor and the wooden handle leaned against the sofa.

Angela was a pretty child. To get under the skin of others she deliberately made herself ugly, creepy and frightening to look at. Her face was always compacted into its most common room of poked-out lips. An angry and tight brow swelled up high over shifting, narrow, cat-brown eyes. The way she wore her braids made her look like a puffed-up baby bull. Her three braids stuck out like horns ready to gore open anybody that got in her way. She loved and adored her braids. They assisted her by intimidating those who became her victim.

Jimmy believed there was nothing bad about his little girl. He admired her. He subtly trained her to idolize him. She exemplified his disregard for human life. Hatred for her mother and her best friend, Ruby Johnson, ran like water.

Angela swung and kicked her feet back and forth. She banged them on the sofa, pretending they were heavy as lead. The dead thudding sound of her black brogans bothered Spits. The sound made him anxious. He didn’t like the girl. He wanted whatever crazy thing Jimmy planned over with. He could feel how vindictive Angela’s thoughts were towards the adult she believed caused her new raid of terror.

Angela ended the awkward silence. She looked at Spits.

Your radio is all messed up. It stinks in here like dirty underwear. I’ll be glad when my daddy calls. I’m ready to leave.

Spits smiled at her. I know you told your daddy lies about the Jew. You want him to hurt somebody.

You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. She rolled her eyes at him. That Jew did what I said he did. On top of that, my mama had that goin’ away party without evenin’ tellin’ my daddy. He’s gonna beat her up real good. On top of that, my daddy says nobody can come into our room.

Now, I get it, Spits laughed.

What you laughin’ at showin’ them old-crooked teeth. Your mouth looks like it’s in jail.

One day, that’s where you’re goin’ because you just that mean. You lied because your daddy hates that Jew. He’s your mama’s friend and not her customer.

I ain’t movin’ with my mama. My daddy said I can come and live with him.

You don’t know where your daddy lives. Nobody knows that.

I do know where he lives. I do know. Mr. Ugly.

I still say you lyin’ about all that stuff you told your daddy.

So, what if I did tell a lie. You ain’t nobody. You ain’t the lyin’ police. My daddy says you just his flunky and doormat.

Yeah, I guess there’s some truth to that.

She swung and kicked her feet harder against the sofa. She wanted to break something but the old sofa was tough.

I’m through workin’ for your daddy. I’m fed up with the both of you.

"Good. We fed up with you, Mr. Ugly. You just mad because my daddy believes what I say and not you. You probably ain’t even got no daddy.

There might be some truth to that.

I’m my daddy’s little girl and nobody is but me. She lifted her arm and flashed her silver-identification bracelet in Spit’s face. She pointed to the inscription. See, it says ‘Jimmy Tate’s little girl’. My daddy bought it for me before he went out of town.

Spits laughed. He knew he had to do it. He leaned closer to her. Through his handicap of spraying spit, when he talked too fast, he told her, Yeah, that’s what it says, alright, but that don’t mean it’s true.

It is true, she yelled. I ain’t like my brother and sisters. I know who my daddy is. She wiped her face with her hand. You spit on me again. I’m tellin’ my daddy on you.

The phone rang. Spits answered it. Yeah, he said into the receiver. It was Jimmy on the line. After a few seconds of listening, Spits hung up the phone, rose to his feet and picked up the sledgehammer. Come on. He extended his hand for Angela to take it.

Don’t touch me. You dirty. You spit on people when you talk. I hate you. She stuck her hands into her jacket pocket, stood up, walked to the door and waited for him to open it.

After they stepped onto the alley’s ground, and the door was closed and locked, Spits grabbed Angela by the collars of her jacket. He pulled her up on the balls of her feet. You need to see all of what happens tonight. This is your work. I hope you remember it for the rest of your life. You hear me you evil monster?

Angela jerked away from him. Shut up. You spittin’ on me again. She wiped her face with her hand, wiping her hand on her jacket. I’m tellin’ my daddy everything you said to me.

Jimmy crossed the midway of 55th Street’s heavy car traffic. When he got to the other side, he was near the mouth of the alley that led onto the main drag. He went around the corner toward a black Ford convertible, Galaxie 500. Spits and Angela were inside.

Jimmy drove onto 55th Street. Two young hustlers waved at his car before it passed them. Jimmy despised the young men who were taking on the same profession. To him, they had no class or gentlemen manners. They wore big afros instead of processed hair. Colorful and flowering polyester blouses took the place of silk shirts. Gold chains were more impressive than silk ties. Bell bottom jeans or tight polyester pants took the place of a silk suit. Their hats were big, floppy, and furry. Sunglasses, rimmed with rhinestones, were worn and never taken off until they went to sleep. Everything about the new and modernized Jimmy Tate was big and overdone. The men looked more feminine than masculine. Some even grew their nails long and painted them with color. To Jimmy this new look had no truth to it. Everything about the young men taking his place was a lie. A lie to convince young women they were emotionally sensitive men with a young girl’s feeling of feeling sweet compassion.

White women, those considered beautiful and ugly, were not a novelty anymore. Where there had been only one, maybe two, in the entire neighboring ghettos of 55th Street there were now too many. From the old hustler’s point of view, they had no class or self-respect. Most were runaway flower children addicted to the worst kind of drug.

Family Shoes

7:05 P.M.

Mr. Straub finished restocking his shelves and taking inventory. He was a shy, young and quiet man with an affectionate and trusting smile. Though the store was closed he waited for Ruby Johnson to pick up four pairs of shoes. They were going away gifts for Freddie’s children.

His clientele, the same as all the shops on 55th Street, were black. Ninety percent were women. Mr. Straub’s best sales were made throughout the rush of an oncoming holiday, party, or special event. Within panicky anticipation, surrounding such times, the women sent him running back and forth inside a war of shoes. Many wanted the same shoes Freddie Walker wore with a handbag to match. They did not want to appear as copycats and wanted the items in a different color.

When the war was over, and the women satisfied with the dazzle of their handbags and shoes, Mr. Straub was exhausted. He had to close, lie on the sofa and take a nap. He was proud of his popularity with the women. Their stubborn and aggressive ways, and precise knowledge of what they wanted pushed his business into being successful.

Some of his most loyal customers pretended not to like him. However, they kept an eye on shoes and handbags behind the store-front glass and told him when his merchandise was on its way out of style. He liked how they kept an eye on him.

His mind drifted to last night’s going-away party and how much fun it brought. He was under the impression that the five who attended were special friends that Ruby and Freddie liked. It pleased him to find himself as one of them.

The party faded out of his thoughts. He started his bookkeeping. A few seconds later, the crashing sound of shattering glass stunned him to full attention. The door to the main entrance of the showroom had gone beyond its normal point of stopping. It slammed and kept banging against a wall of shelves that displayed Children’s shoes. All the shoes were shaken loose from their balance. They fell in clutters, spreading out wide on the floor. Jimmy walked in. There was a sledgehammer in his hand.

Fear took hold of Mr. Straub and controlled him. It began its descent from the pit of his stomach, climbed to his chest and rested there to pound his heart.

The door swayed to and fro while hanging lopsided from its bent hinges and loose nails. The people passing by glanced briefly inside but kept on walking. It was too dangerous to take on the role of a witness regarding Jimmy Tate’s tirade against a Jew.

Jimmy raised and flung the sledgehammer with quick precision onto every shelf and wall displaying high heel shoes and handbags to match. The core of his battering was directed toward the showroom’s blue-pastel chairs. With the devastation of each one, Jimmy showed obvious hatred for the chairs as if they were despised people. Mr. Straub was aware that Jimmy must have known Freddie chose the chairs during the remolding of his showroom.

He finished with the destruction of the chairs and walked to Mr. Straub, who was petrified and stuck where he stood.

Jimmy wielded the sledgehammer over his shoulder, in the back of himself, and to the other side of himself. With his feet planted firm, he raised the sledgehammer as high as he could, over his head, and then sailed it to come down crashing upon the cash register. The blow of such violent force sounded as if a world of customers were being totaled and rung up all at the same time.

Thin splits and big pieces of metal as dangerous as shrapnel from a gun were air born and landed everywhere inside the store. A piece of metal lodged into Mr. Straub’s shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he saw his shoulder had begun to bleed.

Jimmy took a deep breath and looked around at the disaster. He wanted to see the result of his insane madness. He was only relieved of a small amount of frustration. His erratic and lethal adrenalin had wiped out all traces of Reggie’s whiskey. He was his normal self again with a new upsurge of psychotic behavior. All his violent tendencies were free and deadly.

Mr. Straub’s showroom was destroyed within six minutes. It took him and Freddie a long time to decorate a room that feels comforting to women who were not easy to get along with.

Mr. Straub found his feet. He eased closer to the telephone that hung on a wall near the register.

Touch that phone, Jimmy told him, I’ll bash your head in.

Mr. Straub tried to steady his nerves to calm. Take the money, Jimmy. Take it and get out of my shop.

Jimmy laughed. You think this is about money? I don’t want your money, motherfucker. Do I even look like I need your money?

A crowd had formed in front of the store. Spits, holding Angela’s hand, worked his way through the crowd. Jimmy wanted them to be purposely late. Spits lifted the loose door and straightened it good enough to close it and lock it. The door’s shade had no window to support it. Spits pulled it down anyway. Angela slipped her hand back into his.

Spit’s silent language with Mr. Straub conveyed the expression of no responsibility. Earlier, he had given Jimmy the sledgehammer telling him to do his own dirt. He told Jimmy he was terminating his employment and moving back to Alabama.

Mr. Straub read Spit’s message clear and clean. Spit’s fate would be taken into consideration when retaliation was being decided. Mr. Straub was street savvy. Every Jewish shop owner had to be that way to survive within an all-black environment. Violent trouble that came upon one of them came upon all of them. What to do about it was decided inside their own court of law.

Jimmy laid down the sledgehammer. He held his hand out to Angela. Come here baby, he told her.

Angela squeezed Spit’s hand. He could feel the girl trembling, and seemingly, in slow motion, urine began to trickle down her legs. A puddle formed and spread into the carpet under her feet. The smell of urine, plaster, and metal permeated throughout the showroom.

For Spits, seeing Angela like that brought heartfelt sympathy. He reminded himself Angela was just an eight-year-old child. She was a victim of her father’s insane regimental brutality.

Come here, baby, said Jimmy.

She tightened her legs together and tried to hold it back, but the last of her urine came spilling faster down her legs.

Stop pissin’ on the goddamn floor. What the fuck is wrong with you? Get over here. This motherfucker can’t hurt you. Come here.

Spits loosened Angela’s tight grip. He stepped out of the puddle of urine spreading under his feet. Angela went to Jimmy and squeezed her hand onto his.

Is this the man, baby?

Yeah, Angela replied, looking at the floor. Look at him. Dammit!

I don’t want to, Daddy. Don’t make me.

I said look at him.

Angela raised her head, avoiding eye contact with Mr. Straub. She looked at his chin.

What did he do?

He came into our room last night.

What else did he do?

He closed the door and sat on my bed. I told him I was gonna tell my daddy on him if he didn’t leave.

What did he say?

He begged me not to tell you and then he got up and left. He was at Mama and Miss Ruby’s goin’ away party. Mama is leavin’ you. I swear it, Daddy. You can ask Betty Jean and Neda.

Mr. Straub was in a place of stunned. The girl is lying. She’s lying. I did not go inside the room. I made the mistake of opening the wrong door. I was looking for the toilet.

Shut the fuck up, Jimmy told him.

Mr. Straub didn’t know what to expect next. He looked over at Spits. I’m giving you a chance to get out of my store. If you do not leave, I will call the police. You will not go unpunished for this. Mr. Straub turned and attempted to walk to his phone. He had no intention of calling the police, but he did know who to call.

Jimmy pushed Angela aside with more force than intended. She fell to the floor and began screaming and crying.

What did you say, motherfucker? Jimmy asked.

There was no more fear. Mr. Straub was just livid. You know what I said, Jimmy. You will not go unpunished for this. The girl is lying.

Jimmy erupted. He reached out and grabbed Mr. Straub by the front of his shirt. He twisted and locked his hands into the material and flung Mr. Straub into the wall.

Spits unlocked the door and opened it. He yelled at Angela, Go get in the car. She did not hear the order. She lifted her head and watched Jimmy drive his fist into Mr. Straub’s face several times. When Mr. Straub fell to the floor, she stood up and ran out.

Come on, man, said Spits. He went to Jimmy and grabbed his arm.

Jimmy pulled out of his grip. He reached inside his breast pocket, removed his red-cosmetic sponge and mopped the sweat off his face.

Spits picked up the sledgehammer and walked out with Jimmy behind him. The sound of police sirens could be heard.

On their way out three men entered the shop. They were considered peculiar by those who saw them. The suits they wore were black. All had beards, mustaches, and side hair with curls. They were older than Mr. Straub. One of the men, similar in size, coloring, and height could have been Mr. Straub’s father.

The men were shocked when they saw the catastrophic damage. They silently agreed that Jimmy Tate had signed his own death warrant. Something so horribly violent happened and was now kin of justice. It was understood between both races that all forms of ramifications were fair and just. And even though their religious beliefs were not the same, all of them believed in the even-handedness of one God.

Mr. Clark’s Grocery Store

Mr. Clark, a middle age black man, had a calloused and off-centered face that was hard to look at. People considered him bashful and straight forward. From the young female perspective, where thoughts of an older man come up out of discontent, Mr. Clark had a sweet and reliable way about his character that sometimes, when comfortable enough made its self-known.

The business establishment in which he was sole proprietor was inside the heart of 55th Street’s ghettos. Two blocks from the main drag. It was a fat and wide one-level shack made of brick and tar. The ass of the store, same as the back porches of three-story tenements, on either side, sat inside a long and narrow strip of the alley. Overhead, because of an unstable patch of tracks, trains pushed forward careful and slow.

To help Mr. Clark conceal merchandise, he could go back to prison for selling, the store was a confined and disorganized wreck on purpose. There were many rows of shelves behind the counter that covered all four walls. They began at the base of the floor and rose seven stories to the height of the ceiling. There was no even flow and harmony about their position. To assure an assortment of merchandise, Mr. Clark sold only small items like canned goods, junk food, cigarettes, playing cards, dice, bullets and illegal half-pints of whatever kind of liquor was popular at the time.

Where the satisfaction of a child’s taste is concerned, before the last ring of the morning school bell, children crowded into Mr. Clark’s store to point and choose from the extensive variety of candies underneath a glass countertop. For them his store was a place of mystery and anticipation.

On this night Mr. Clark was behind the counter. He had Ruby Johnson’s grocery list in his hand. He was a short man who used a step ladder